On The Trail We Blaze

Who are your rolemodels?

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 23:34:31 -0500

Well, obviously I have to put my dad first here. He’s always been there for me, and he’s always been there to teach my right from wrong and encourage me to help others. Without him I really don’t know who I’d be, of course.

This whole hero thing is pretty new to me, honesty, I never thought that’s where I’d end up, so I don’t have a lot of role models there! But there are a lot of civil rights leaders I’ve always looked up to. Can that whole movement be a role model?

And finally - don’t laugh - Indiana Jones has always been a role model. That’s why I chose a whip to learn to channel fire through! It just look so cool.

do you hate it when it rains?

Wed, 08 Feb 2012 23:27:38 -0500

I actually do! It’s always put me in a really bad mood. When I was really little, I’d hate to go outside in it, but I’ve learned to live with it as an adult. It’s just water, it won’t kill me.

But it really is the worst weather. I like it hot and dry.

How long have you been hearing the voices of the dead?

Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:58:09 -0500

The first time I can remember hearing the dead, I was six. My grandma had died, and at the graveside service I could hear what sounded like a constant hum of conversations over the sermon. But I knew that everyone at the service was silent, and I couldn’t see where it was coming from. I didn’t understand what happened at the funeral for a while, and I didn’t tell anyone for at least a year, when my fire powers started to develop. Once I realized I had other powers, it wasn’t hard to piece together what I’d been hearing and understand that it was real and I probably wasn’t crazy. I think I’d probably been able to hear them before, but there had never been enough dead souls in the places I frequented as a child for me to notice the voices were coming from nowhere. It just sounded like overhearing someone’s conversation.

A few months ago...

Mon, 09 Jan 2012 20:55:36 -0500

Aradia settled down cross-legged in front of the grave-marker, placing her bouquet of dyed daisies into the built-in vase. The April sun shone above her, its first time out this spring. It was exactly the sort of day her friend would have loved, in life. A good day to visit her.

“Hey, Melissa,” she whispered. There was no need to voice her calling; the woman would know she was here, would hear her without speaking. But it felt less strange to call her out loud than to sit silently before her grave, waiting. After a moment, she heard Melissa’s familiar voice come out through the throng of the dead, Hello, Aradia. I love the flowers.

Aradia smiled. I knew you would, she answered, letting herself slip back into her own mind, trying to tune out the other voices in the graveyard so it was just her and Melissa in her mind. How have you been?

Fine.

Aradia knew that was a lie. Melissa’s was a voice she’d first heard wailing in the night as she drove home from her friend’s house a couple years ago. She had to pull the car over and weep with her, overcome by a stranger’s grief and pain. A week later, she’d headed to the graveyard to find her. Melissa had recognized her and called her to her grave. The woman, murdered by her boyfriend, was the same age as Aradia now.

Sburbia was a quiet town, but that didn’t mean it was silent. Aradia felt the rage boiling inside her, the heat rising up to her skin, but she pushed it down. She was here to make Melissa happier.

Glad to hear it. And she told her about school, about her volunteer work, steering clear of anything that might upset Melissa. As she left that day, she realized what she had to do. They had a world full of heroes, and a woman being beaten to death by her boyfriend could still be overlooked. Archaeology would never save anybody’s life. She was tired of being immersed in death. When the next semester rolled around, she wasn’t going to re-enroll at her school. She was going to become a hero.